


Eyes

by bexorz



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:31:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexorz/pseuds/bexorz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merryn Shepard is dealing with issues caused by her death, working with Cerberus, and losing Kaidan. Garrus is there for her and reminds her it's not all bad. (Written 01/20/2012, originally posted to tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes

I stare into those brown eyes, eyes I’d seen so close before, their warmth providing me with one last safe harbor, one last bit of hope. Hope for the future, for my species, for  _every_  species—if I didn’t care for others why would I have freed the Rachni queen?—for what I wanted for myself.

I died. His was one of the last faces I’d seen, one of the last voices I’d heard, before the cold and the suffocation and the searing _heat_  had taken me and had turned me into so much frozen, charred flesh. Then after that there were hazy moments, bright light and pain and strange faces, strange voices, strange words. Then there were alarms, a voice on the intercom calling my name, shouting at me to get my ass moving.

No time to think about anything, but still, even through all of that I thought about those brown eyes. I wanted to see those eyes.

Other things came first. A new mission. New dangers born of the ashes of older dangers; maggots bursting from the corpse of a rabid animal. Or maybe I was just finally meeting the foul insect that had laid its eggs there in the first place, while the beast had still been alive, driving it mad.

Or maybe it was the other way around. Turians were not specifically unattractive, but Saran could have been some kind of insect. He had been a very big danger.

I’m off track. My mind wanders when I’m stressed, when I don’t want to deal with something. My thoughts turn to metaphor and simile.

I loved those brown eyes. After the horror of all the paralyzed bodies, the freakish pods both filled and ominously empty, and that…  _whatever-it-was…_  flying through the air with its searing laser, after all of that, I finally saw those eyes again. I hadn’t been expecting them, hadn’t expected to see the angle of his cheek bones, the fullness of his lips.

We share a look, and he steps forward and we embrace. It’s a long hug; I know we don’t have time for chats, I know there are reasons I haven’t tried to contact him since I woke up. There was just too much to chew on, so much I could barely swallow it, and I didn’t want to go digging in my closet, no matter how much I’d wanted to see those eyes. Still, the hug is nice. More than nice.

I’d be lying if I said that Cerberus hadn’t been one reason I hadn’t tried to contact him yet. Working with Cerberus made me sick. Wandering around the new Normandy, wandering into the medical wing, I’d been unable to keep myself from picturing those diseased victims from the fiasco with the Thorian. (Could you even call that a fiasco? It was more like a complete horror.) If Chakwas hadn’t been there, every time I walked into that room I’d have seen, in my mind’s eye, a sloppy greenish corpse stretched out on the examination table.

Cerberus made me sick, but they brought me back, gave me back my ship—or something like it—gave me a purpose beyond my death, even if it was a purpose that had already driven me even before I’d died. I didn’t agree with their modus operandi, but so far, since I’d been alive again, their moral transgressions hadn’t disgusted me to the point that I wouldn’t work with them. As long as I ignored the past, anyway. I won’t ignore it forever; Cerberus will pay for all the things they’ve done. They’ll pay for what they did on Akuze.

For the briefest moment, I turn my face towards his neck, not quite touching his skin with my lips, but filling my nose with the scent of him anyway. Soot and sweat and some kind of mechanical smell, and underneath is the smell of  _Kaidan_  as I’d had it all over me, and in my sheets, that night before everything at the Citadel had gone to shit.

Then he pulls away, and there’s a look on his face that puts me on my guard.

_I thought you were dead, Shepard. We all did._

I was.

Other words come, words that stab into me, words that I don’t deserve. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t bother to ask. He’s judging me, and he doesn’t even ask. Even if he did, I don’t have to justify myself to him. I am myself; my memories are intact. None of my other squad mates have seen anything odd in my speech or in my behavior; they’ve been my litmus test, their perceptions of me the proof I needed to satisfy myself that no, Cerberus _hadn’t_  messed with my brain or my personality.

I’ve only been awake for such a little time, and he had already been deep in his mission for the Alliance and out of contact. Even if I’d felt it had been the right time, I still couldn’t have gotten in touch with him  _just like that_  after Cerberus woke me up.

He doesn’t trust me. There’s contempt, fear, and accusations in those brown eyes I’d once taken comfort in. Obviously his feelings about Cerberus are stronger than his feelings for me. I’d thought that I’d been a greater priority to him than that, but his words pour into me like quicksilver and pool in the pit of my stomach, making me feel sick. I guess I’m not much of a priority anymore.

How can I  _possibly_  have changed as much as he claims? There’s nothing I can say; he doesn’t listen. Garrus comes to my defense—maybe to the defense of all of us, I don’t know—and says what I’m thinking, that Kaidan is blinded by his hatred of Cerberus. I have just as much reason to hate Cerberus as anyone might. I remember Akuze. Maybe that’s why Kaidan can’t comprehend why I’d be working with them.

If I weren’t working with Cerberus, this whole colony would now be on board the vessel that just escaped. This whole colony would be dead. I’m willing to put the needs and safety of everyone else above my hatred of Cerberus, but he can’t be bothered to trust my judgment.

I’m the one who died. I don’t remember all of it, but I remember most of it. They’re horrible, the nightmares. Suffocation and panic and burning. I’ll wake up with the sheets tangled around my legs, gasping for air as if I were still in that suit, flying through space with my air supply spewing into the vacuum. Sometimes the only way I can escape the nightmares is by begging Chakwas for something to knock me into a sleep too deep to dream in.

_I thought we had something, Shepard. Something real. I loved you. Thinking you were dead tore me apart. How could you put me through that?_

_I’m_  the one who died, and he’s angry with me because  _he_  was hurting?

His words are still there as we transport back to the Normandy, burning in my chest like napalm. Even as I head to the port observation deck and pour myself a drink, the burning refuses to be quenched.

I had missed him so much, had missed those brown eyes, and he threw it all back into my face like a fistful of hot ash.

More simile, more analogies for burning. Clearly, the solution is more drink.

"Come here often?"

That deep voice buzzes pleasantly in my ear as I lean against the bar, matching the buzz on my brain from the alcohol. I turn to my right and there’s Garrus leaning against the bar with me. His presence, loyal and unwavering, is a salve on the burns on my soul.

"Only on Tuesdays," I reply.

He reaches out one of his odd claws and taps the end of a talon on the edge of my glass. “How many of those have you had?” he asks.

If he had human lips, I’d swear he was smirking. I’m getting better at reading his odd facial quirks, though, at least I think I am. Maybe I’m too drunk, though, and am not really seeing that twitch to his left mandible.

My eyes drift down to the glass, mostly empty now, and I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

Garrus nudges my shoulder with his. “Hey, it’ll be all right. Lemme buy you another drink—it’ll be my pleasure.”

I squint at him and gesture at the bottles of booze on the wall. “It’s Cerberus credits that bought all this shit.”

"That’s why it’ll be my pleasure."

All right, that right there is obviously a grin. I reach up my hand to his face, and curiously I trace the line of his jaw, rub my thumb down the front edge of a mandible to the lower tip.

He stiffens for a moment—though I think I see him shiver a little—and he turns his crested head to face me as he grabs my wrist gently. Those eyes of his aren’t brown; they’re blue, and they pierce right into me. No matter what I say or what I do, I know he’ll always trust me. He’ll always follow me wherever I lead. With so many uncertainties in this universe, I need that trust. It’s the only way I’m able to handle this association with Cerberus, it’s the only way I’m able to handle all the opposing personalities I have to play peacemaker with. (Kelly can only do so much.)

His belief and his trust in me are the only reason I’m able to handle the nightmares.

I smile.

He understands.


End file.
